The Lighthouse
by Availre
Summary: Christine is left to ponder the events of her life while taking a late-night stroll along a beach. Set after the events of POTO, mostly book based, not an alternate LND story. Oneshot. I took some creative license here, but please feel free to let me know what you think! It's appreciated.


**So this is the product of not having internet for a couple of hours. Enjoy!**

Christine de Chagny walked the sandy beach that lay just outside the town where her father was buried. It was her annual visit to his grave on the anniversary of his death, although in recent years she had taken to walking along the beach past dark simply to calm her thoughts and enjoy the moonlight glittering on the roiling waves of the French coast.

In particular, Christine always had a strange love for the broken lighthouse that stood alone on the shore. She had a wistful, childish fantasy that she would be able to live in there someday with a family she may or may not have. Raoul had sailed off to Antarctica almost a year ago, and he should have returned with his ship and crew, but he never came back. No one had.

She hadn't set foot in Paris since her ordeal with Erik, whom she presumed to be dead also. She had, per his request, kept her eye on the obituary section in the Parisian papers, but no notification of his death had been published. It had been nearly two years now since that fateful night beneath the opera house. Sometimes Christine fervently regretted leaving with Raoul, while others she shuddered at the thought of living out the rest of her days with Erik. Each man had appealed to different sides of her, and each day brought a love for a different man.

Today, though, Christine was feeling particularly gloomy, and was in sore need of a good melody to lift her spirits. Today she needed Erik. She might need Erik for a whole week, but once again she would be left to console and comfort herself. In a month's time, perhaps she would be missing Raoul more than anyone, and would be longing to see his smiling face. She never knew which one she would want beside her that day.

But it didn't really matter which one she _wanted_, she would still ahve to face everything alone. She had made sure of that when she had disobeyed Erik to see Raoul. She had made sure of that when she went to kiss Erik's forehead that lone time. Neither man would have ever trusted her completely, for fear of his rival coming back and swooping her away with his charms.

And yet Raoul had still decided to leave to Antarctica, apparently fully convinced that Erik was long dead. She, Christine, had forced herself to believe that he was so that she wouldn't be tempted to return to him. She had made her choice, though she had never been entirely sure it was the right one. But she was no longer a child, and she could not go back on a decision.

She knew, though, that Raoul was not coming back, but still Christine couldn't bring herself to go back to Paris, to see the Opera house that may still be in ruins and ashes. She would _not_ be weak like that again. She would never allow her indecisiveness and timid spirit to rule her for the rest of her time on this earth.

Her late husband (they had married mere weeks after she had 'escaped' from Erik) had left her with a large sum of money, and the title of vicomtesse. When he had left, Christine had been with child, though she hadn't known it at the time. She was sure, though, that if she had and had told him about it, he would not have gone. But she didn't know, and therefore couldn't tell him, and Raoul had left her and their unborn baby.

Christine wrapped her loosely knitted crocheted shawl around herself more tightly; it was getting late, even for her, and a chill was creeping onto her skin. She knew she should be heading towards her hotel and her son, Andre, and her handmaid, but she was loathe to do so, as it was very rare that she got any sort of peace and quiet. She looked up to the waning moon as it shone onto her porcelain like skin without any warmth, its light merely a reflection of the real thing.

Christine then began to wonder if she had ever been in love with Raoul. When she saw him for the first time after so many years on the eve of her debut, Christine wasn't sure whether or not she wanted a reminder of happier times when her father was alive. He had been persistent, though, much like he had been when they were children, and she had eventually acknowledged that she knew him. They had both found each other to be much the same as they had been years ago, though Christine was perhaps a bit more somber and morose after her father's death.

The Vicomte had comforted her in her apparently frail state of mental health; he nearly thought her mad for saying that she spoke to angels and voices inside her dressing room. But she wasn't mad. No, she never had been. The voice _had_ been real, and he had spoken to her, though sometimes impatiently or harshly.

Christine thought, with sick amusement, that Raoul only truly believed and comprehended the event during her time at the opera house once he had been trapped within Erik's torture chamber. Up until that point, he had fancied himself invincible, much like the heroes in popular folktales. After all, he was handsome, young, charming, and from nobility. He was the perfect candidate to be _her_ hero. And he had been, for a time, at least.

Tension had set in upon their marriage when Raoul had made it clear that he was going to go to on the voyage to Antarctica. And Christine, being the ever demure, ever faithful wife that she was, had silently accepted that he was leaving. As his day of departure drew nearer, however, she became more snappy and emotional. In hindsight, Christine supposed it was because of her pregnancy. But as a result of her increasing hostility towards him, they were not on speaking terms when he left. She never said goodbye to him.

She had loved him, though. That much was clear to her as she wiped an escaped tear from her cheekbone. And she loved her little Andre even more than she could have thought possible. She fancied that he was the best of both her and Raoul wrapped into one, chubby, giggling boy. When he grew older, he would have Raoul's smile and nose, and her eyes and voice. He would be handsome, just like his father, and would treat everyone kindly, even his societal inferiors. He would be charming and polite, and would be generous with his money. he wouldn't drink in excess, or treat women as inferior. He would be the perfect gentleman.

It wasn't until she saw the sun creeping up over the eastern horizon that Christine realized how long she had been on the beach, thinking. She hurriedly gathered up her skirts and made her way into town and the hotel room where she was staying.

Just outside of her door was that day's paper, and she picked it up and opened the door as quietly as she could, and was relieved to find that both Andre and her handmaid were sleeping soundly.

Christine settled herself into an armchair and opened the paper to the obituary section out of habit. As usual, _he_ was not mentioned. Then, quite unexpectedly, she read one line that made her eyes mist.

_ Erik is dead._

**So, erm, yeah. I wasn't entirely sure where I was going with this. It's a little depressing, actually, when I go through and read it again. I may or may not turn it into a two-shot, depending on what you guys all want.**


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